The Spectator
by Tyloric
Summary: He's trapped behind a wall of glass, trying desperately to escape them. Escape what they're going to make him do; kill his best friend.


_**The Spectator**_**  
By Tyloric**

_Story Lottery Prompt #22: A Second_

One second… two… three…  
The door was right in front of him now.

A foreign emotion swept over him and he wasn't sure what it was. He'd never felt this before. Anxiety? No, not even close. Fear? Maybe, possibly.

Four…  
His hand gripped the door knob, turning it in a fluid and completely artificial movement.

And there he was, sitting at the table, looking entirely bored out of his mind, rubbing his knuckles against his beard. His hair was combed back and stuck in place by who knows what kind of hair products. His beard was trimmed and organized. His muscles ripped, defined, and bugling. He was a pretty boy, and he knew it; a real ladies man.

Five…  
Scotch noticed him the moment the door swung open. His face brightened and a grin spread across it. Happy, that's what Scotch was, genuinely happy to see him, his best friend, his pal, his buddy, and his brother-in-arms.

Six…  
And in that moment, at seeing the happiness his mere presence caused his friend, he knew what this new emotion was. At being unable to do anything about the situation, being unable to prevent it, he _knew._

His feet stepped toward the chair at the other side of the table and he sat down.

Seven…  
He was terrified. He was filled with absolutely pure terror. He wanted to scream at Scotch, to warn him. _Get away! _He yelled inside his head at full volume. _Run! Get away from me! _He beat against the glass wall of his mind with all his strength, but it didn't do him any good. His face remained completely neutral.

Eight…  
He gave his friend a curt, stiff nod. "Scotch." His voice said. Scotch would know something was wrong, wouldn't he? He would be able to tell he wasn't acting like himself. Maybe, just _maybe. _

Nine…  
Scotch's mood went from bored to excited in the blink of an eye. "Tillman." He breathed, his voice filled relief and complete joy.

_Please, god, run. _He tried to say. But they wouldn't let him, couldn't. He could feel the tingling in the back of his skull. The buzz of their silent presence in his head was nearly deafening.

Ten… eleven… twelve…  
Scotch started rattling on about what they had been doing to him over the past few weeks. The blood work, the injections, the scans, the experiments. Tillman knew all of this already. He had undergone the same treatments.

Maybe even more than that.

Thirteen… fourteen… fifteen…  
His eyes betrayed no emotion. His face was utterly neutral. His posture was stiff and rigid.

Sixteen…  
The gun that pressed up against his lower back felt like it was burning a hole in his body, demanding to be noticed, to be _used. _He was so utterly aware of its presence, of how he was going to use it, _forced _to use it, that he would probably be in a ball of the floor crying his eyes out if he had control.

Seventeen…  
Maybe if he tried hard enough he could point the gun at himself…

Eighteen, nineteen.  
"Hey." Scotch frowned. "You okay, man?"

Twenty.  
"Fine."

Twenty-one.  
Scotch narrowed his eyes and raised an eyebrow unbelievingly. _He can tell,_ Tillman knew he would be able too! He felt a surge of hope. _Just maybe._

Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four.  
But then a grin spread across Scotch's face and any hope he had had vanished. "Are you getting out of here, you son of a bitch?" He asked mischievously.

Twenty-five.  
"I'm not getting out." He deadpanned.

He beat against the walls, harder, _harder_, and against all odds he was able to fracture the glass. He felt it; he felt the control slip just a little. _Keep going, keep trying._

Twenty-six.  
"Okay…" Scotch trailed off, looking confused now.

Twenty-seven.  
Tillman sighs, sounding almost annoyed and reached behind his back. His fingers wrap against the gun, and he gives another push at the glass. He hand hesitates for a fraction of a second… but then pulls it out and places it on the table.

When Scotch sees it, he frowns worriedly.

Twenty-eight.  
"What… what's the gun for, Till?" His voice cracks ever so slightly. No one else would ever have noticed it, but Tillman did. After how long he had known his best friend he was able to pick up on things like that. Things like fear.

Twenty-nine.  
Tillman just shrugs.

Thirty, thirty-one.  
"Seriously man, what's it for?" He voice gets just a little bit more desperate.

**Thirty-two**  
He grips the gun tighter. It feels like fire in his hand.

**Thirty-three**  
"I'm sorry…" he chokes out. The glass is fixing itself. He pounds against it, desperate, pleading. _Don't do this!_

**Thirty-four**  
"I can't… I can't control it… they're… in my head."

**Thirty-five**  
"Tillman, you are seriously _freaking me out. _Just… put the gun away…" Scotch tries to reason.

**THIRTY-SIX**  
He raises the gun. "I'm so sorry." It shakes in his hand as he pounds as the glass with every last bit of strength he has, trying so desperately to resist their control. But he's not strong enough… not strong…

**THIRTY-SEVEN**  
"N-no!" Scotch stammers, jumping back, the chair sliding slightly. He's raised his hands, attempting to shield himself.

**THIRTY-EIGHT**  
"I'm sorry. I'm so, _so sorry._" He's crying now, tears streaming down his face. But he doesn't choke, sob, or pout. His face is neutral. They won't even give him that much.

He pounds at the glass, trying, trying so hard, trying to get through, turn the gun on himself, _anything._ But he's losing… _losing_...

**THRITY-NINE**  
"Till, man, please-"

Forty…  
The gun goes off, and the room falls into an eerie silence.

He loses track of time then, just staring, staring at the gaping hole in Scotch's head. He feels it slipping, his mind, going. He's so stunned that everything goes numb. The gun drops from his hand on to the table with a _thunk. _

Drip… drip… drip…  
Staring… just… staring… at his best friend… his pal… his buddy… his brother-in-arms…


End file.
